


When My Blue ____  Turns ____ Again

by Trista_zevkia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Post Reichenbach, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trista_zevkia/pseuds/Trista_zevkia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock only has Moran to stop before he can return to London. Only one problem remains. Who is this John person everybody keeps asking about?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When My Blue ____  Turns ____ Again

“London!” The man almost screamed the word as Sherlock put his weight on the man’s shoulder wound.

There was a strange moment of déjà vu, but Sherlock pushed it away. He had a trained, eidetic memory, so déjà vu just pissed him off. If something similar had happened, he should remember exactly what it was. 

“Please, Moran, London!” The man was screaming this time, but now with the backing of those silly American police car sirens. 

Sherlock stepped back, leaving the man to his piles of PCP, mounds of meth and cocaine. It was not cascades of cocaine, because Sherlock Holmes did not waste brain space alliterating or making bad puns. That feeling was back, the déjà vu now mixed with some sad wanting. Sherlock snarled as he slipped out the back of the meth lab and an alley cat snarled back. A quick search through his memory while he headed back to the hotel, stripping off his plastic gloves and disposing of them as he went, let him find the memory that had triggered the déjà vu. 

Hope, cabbie, bloody awful cabbie you should see the route. Sherlock’s steps faltered, why was an assessment of the man’s driving in with his murder jacket? A gaggle of tourists were moving toward him, bringing Sherlock out of his pause. Ducking down a few alleys before he could get into any of their pictures, he made it back to the no-tell-motel without further distraction. Getting a plane ticket for his current identity to return to England was easy, and afterwards he sprawled, fully clothed, on the saggy bed and entered his mind palace. 

_He’d returned from chasing down the passenger instead of the cab driver, and paused in the entryway to get his breath back. He was laughing about it, for some strange reason, when Mrs. Hudson appeared on the landing. In the midst of Lestrade’s drugs bust he remembered being embarrassed about his drug history. Second strange feeling, as he didn’t do embarrassment. Then the solution was there, beeping on the computer and parked at his front door._

_Jefferson Hope, cabbie, part-time serial killer, aneurism, thought himself clever, was either a 50/50 chance or he was palming the pills. About to take one, somebody shot Hope through the shoulder, trace bullet back, empty windows, long range, expert marksman, didn’t fire until last minute, moral center, marksman put on hold to deal with Hope._

Moriarty. Hope screamed as Sherlock pressed his foot into his shoulder wound, which would be what triggered this trip down memory lane. 

_Told Lestrade what happened, fought over having to wear blanket, told observations of marksman, ignored because he was in shock. Which he wasn’t. Arrogant idiots, marksman never caught, Sherlock hadn’t looked. Assumed Hope had other enemies, maybe even this Moriarty person. Went for Chinese, really good meal._

Sherlock went through it again, starting with the drugs bust. His memories of a few details were fuzzy around the edges, the boring parts he’d had to remember to understand the case. No, he hadn’t needed to remember going out for Chinese after, but he didn’t want to delete it now. Curious. The memory of Hope’s killer not getting caught was clear and traced with relief. Sherlock considered it was sentiment for the guy possibly saving his life, mainly because that was the only explanation he had. 

Well, he’d be back in London soon. His flight left the Memphis International Airport the next morning, so London would have to survive until then. Once he put Moran in jail, or killed him, whichever was easier, Sherlock would go see Mycroft. Tracking down Moriarty’s network had been fun and he’d thrown himself into it with more than his normal level of obsession. Moran was the last, heir of Moriarty’s network, so after him Sherlock would be done, and in London. 

London had always been his favorite place, but Sherlock was reluctant to return now, for some nameless reason. He’d let Mycroft pamper him for a while, but be gone with the first interesting case that came along. Either back to London, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, or somewhere else if he still dreaded London. Sherlock didn’t care about coming back from the dead, but staying with Mycroft for a short time meant he’d be able to ask why parts of his memory were fuzzy. Without asking for help, because Sherlock did not need help. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called, in an actual, urgent-sounding voice. 

Intrigued, Sherlock turned to raise an eyebrow at him. 

“I cannot believe you held a press conference with Scotland Yard about the capture of Moran before coming to see me.” Mycroft was irritated enough to have his minions kidnap Sherlock from the press conference, which was expected, and now openly angry at him from across his desk, which was not expected. 

“You knew I was alive, what would be the point of reminding you?” 

“How many times have made you promise you would come to me, first thing upon returning to England?” 

Sherlock ran the numbers in his head. “32.5” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

“Once a month for almost three years, and last February you only told me to remember my promise, you didn’t get a promise out of me.” 

“And from that, could you not have deduced it was important?” 

“You have terrible priorities.” Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned away again. 

“Because I remember them.” 

Sherlock stopped walking for the door; that got his attention. A quick lick at his top lip gave Sherlock that déjà vu filled longing, so he was snarling as he turned back. 

Mycroft pointed at the uncomfortable visitor’s chair in his office. 

Sherlock sprawled in it as much as possible. 

“Hopefully, you’ve noticed the damage to your memory palace.” 

Sherlock tried his best not to react, but Mycroft saw even that as an answer. 

“You had me hypnotize the memories away, your reason for faking your death.” 

“Three bullets, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you. I remember.” 

“You wouldn’t take a bullet for me, Sherlock.” 

“True, that’s why Moriarty had two others picked out to die for me.” 

“No, Moriarty aimed a bullet at Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson so they would die if you tried to warn John.” 

“John? You’ll have to tell me more about this particular one. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s a very common name.” 

“I say the agreed upon release phrase, and you will know exactly which one I am talking about.” 

“Then just say it!” Sherlock went boneless in the chair, hoping to annoy Mycroft into getting on with things. 

“First, you must watch this video. You need to see it before you remember him.” Mycroft turned his monitor around so Sherlock could see it, and Sherlock sat up a bit. 

Color surveillance, footage of drab flat with a limping man carrying a cup of tea and coming toward the view screen. He sat in front of the camera, and Sherlock realized it was the webcam of the man’s computer. Important John, supposedly. Mycroft really thought this man was important if he was risking this kind of surveillance; anybody who knew computers could figure it out. The man looked exhausted, ancient, but only about forty. His phone rang and John let it ring while he thought about answering. 

“Boring!” Sherlock announced, glancing up to see Mycroft glaring at him. “If he doesn’t do something interesting in the next twenty seconds he’s not that important.” 

“Hi, Harry.” The man answered his phone, voice sounding almost perky and at complete odds with his appearance. 

That was interesting, and Sherlock looked back. John’s eyes were still dead, and something uncomfortable twisted in Sherlock’s gut. 

“No, I’m not watching the news.” John pulled his phone away from his head to sigh heavily where Harry wouldn’t hear. 

“John, it’s on every channel, all over the web! Just pick a site and go.” A woman was shouting from his phone and Sherlock could hear her until John put the phone back to his head. 

John reached for the computer in front of him. A slow peck as he entered his password, and waited a bit for it to log on. 

“Somebody using your computer to spy on you will cause it to slow down, John.” Sherlock said to the screen, but the words were mainly a dig at Mycroft. First time he’d tried that on Sherlock’s computer, Sherlock signed Mycroft up for the dessert of the month club. 

“It’s coming up now.” John said into the phone, and used his touch pad to open a web browser. His breath caught at what he saw, and Sherlock’s voice started coming from the laptop speakers. 

_“I don’t care what paper you are with, you’re still an idiot.”_

John dropped his phone, hands reaching out to stroke the screen. He looked like he was going to cry, his eyes seeming to glow for a long moment. 

Sherlock was about to concede this John could be handsome, when something flashed in John’s eyes. 

_Why didn’t he come to me before the press?_

Sherlock didn’t know the man, but the words might as well have been written on his face for how easy it was to read him. 

“John?” The calling voice slowly got through to Sherlock’s attention and John’s as well. 

John blinked back the tears and the anger, before bending down to get his phone. “I’m here, Harry. Dropped my phone in surprise.” 

Harry said something, but John’s face was as blank and emotionless as it had been before he turned on the computer. 

“No, I didn’t know.” 

Harry spoke some more, and John’s face stayed blank. 

“Clearly not that important, or he’d have dropped me a line.” John stood and walked out of sight, without the limp. A door slammed and Mycroft stopped the video. 

Sherlock found he didn’t have any sarcastic comments at the ready. 

“The webcam is the only surveillance device I have been able to plant on John since you died that he hasn’t found. He might argue with chip and pin machines, but he is very good at destroying equipment.” 

“Why did I need to see that? Before the release phrase, I mean.” 

“Because if you remembered him and saw that, you wouldn’t stay long enough for me to tell you he is being followed. John is safe, remember that.” 

Sherlock had questions and he was certain knowing the answers wouldn’t make him feel any better. 

“When My Blue Moon Turns Gold Again.” A strange, nonsensical thing for Mycroft to say, but it hit Sherlock like a blow. 

His perfect memory was working again but Sherlock couldn’t quite believe what he was remembering. He was at a pub, with the Yard, apparently on quiz night. If it wasn’t for a case, he didn’t do this plebian lifestyle, but a giggle from beside him caught his attention. John regularly came, and Sherlock was filling in for Molly as her Nan was sick. Regardless, they all wanted to beat Anderson and the forensic crew at the next table. 

“Sherlock, this is pop culture, you’re wrong.” 

A quick glance around showed Lestrade and Donovan agreed with John, but they didn’t have the brightness in their eyes that he did. 

“ _It was Love Me Tender_ , you’ve never seen the movie.” John said. 

“No, I’ve not bothered to watch a movie with a cow in wellies on the front cover. The only thing _Top Secret_ about it is how such rubbish ever gets made. But the question asks which song was mocked in the love scene and included the lyrics ‘Shop at Macy’s and love me tonight. The lyrics mentioned do not fit into the meter for _Love Me Tender_. Try to sing it.” 

Sherlock knew they only had so much time to answer all the questions, but he was right. Why ask him along if they weren’t going to listen? Lestrade was thinking, trying to remember the tune to either song, Sally was annoyed and trying to cheat off the neighbors. Beside him, John was softly humming a song; the one Sherlock had said it was. 

“Sherlock’s right, it’s _Are You Lonesome Tonight?_ ” John turned a brilliant grin on Sherlock. “You know Elvis?” 

“Know the foundation, as all else builds from there.” 

_“When my blue moon turns gold again, You’ll be back within my arms to stay.”_ John sang softly, happily. “I’ve always loved that song.” 

Sherlock gasped, jerking upright, all his memories were back and the pain was a physical thing. He remembered dying, needing to run and hunt, but he stayed. Recovering, he’d said, so he could watch John visit his grave. A week later, Mycroft had drugged him with something and put him on a private plane while he was unconscious. Sherlock had taken the hint, the information, and begun his hunt. 

Two days later, Sherlock found himself talking to John, who wasn’t there. A week later, and he asked John to tie up a suspect, a suspect that almost got away when John didn’t tie him up. Sherlock started calling everybody John; waiters, suspects and reflections. John might have been a common name, but a smart criminal could still connect John to John Watson to the presumed dead Sherlock Holmes. 

When he overheard some people in Poland planning a surprise party, Sherlock started thinking of John’s upcoming birthday. His living state would be enough of a birthday present, right? Mycroft’s minions had picked Sherlock off of Baker Street, thirty yards from their front door. Mycroft had a few choice words for Sherlock about sentiment, which Sherlock promptly deleted. Sherlock had learned John no longer lived there, but Mycroft was still paying the rent. Considering his options, Sherlock had begged of Mycroft. 

“Mycroft, if sentiment is a weakness, I’m so weak I should be dead. Make it stop.” 

That was as much begging as Sherlock could do, and sentiment and practicality made Mycroft respond. They’d talked about it for almost an hour, until Sherlock picked the release phrase. His part involved holding the memory of the quiz night in his head while Mycroft hypnotized every other memory of John away. The quiz night had only ever happened once, so it was unique enough to work, and happy enough to be a safe place for Sherlock to start to remember. It did nothing to ease the pain Sherlock felt at having seen John on the monitor. 

“John is safe?” 

“If he tries anything, he will be stopped.” 

“Take me to him.” 

“So you can break his heart a third time?” 

For that, Sherlock had no answer. 

Pleased by the lack of an answer, Mycroft sent a text and walked Sherlock out. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל

The black car pulled up behind the miserable figure leaning on the bridge railing. If Sherlock hadn’t known John as well as he did, he might not have recognized him. Getting out of the car, Sherlock walked as slowly and softly as he could, like he would approach a deer in the woods. John didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Sherlock tried not to feel hurt, and to rationally explain things to John. 

“Three bullets. Mycroft says Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were to keep me from warning you. You’re the only person I expect to believe me when I say I’d have made that jump for any one of those people. And maybe Mycroft, if Mummy was the one asking. He was always the favorite.” No giggle from John, but Sherlock hadn’t really expected one, so much as hoped for one. “Only to protect you would I have stayed dead for three years.” 

The Thames was beautiful as the setting sun let the city lights sparkle against the water. The sun was mostly gone when John finally spoke, with none of the false enthusiasm he’d used on Harry. 

“I learned to use my phone to look up news reports while you were gone.” 

“Ah.” Here was the question Sherlock had dreaded, though it was disguised as an irrelevant statement. “I worked with Scotland Yard to take care of the last sniper. Someone called the press, the secret was out, so I just made it into a press conference. Lestrade kept asking ‘where’s John’ and ‘are you sure’ but, well, I was so high on the case I didn’t listen to him.” 

No response, not even a snort of ‘sounds like you’ from John. 

“I went a little crazy without you. Had to have Mycroft make you disappear so I could get on with things.” 

“More than a little crazy, since Mycroft didn’t make me disappear.” 

“I made him hypnotize me, hide you in my mind palace so I forgot about you.” 

“Can’t leave off messing with your mind.” John muttered, a trace of the disapproving doctor who’d had so much to say about Sherlock taking care of himself. 

“It was safer than messing with my heart, but you always did prefer the danger.” 

“I have been reliably informed that you don’t have a heart.” 

Sherlock winced at the words, but responded the only way he could. “We both know that’s not true, thanks to a certain army doctor.” 

“So you decided to take down Moriarty’s network alone, faked your death, made me watch, and dealt with the pain by avoiding it. What’s next on your agenda?” 

“Mycroft asked if I planned on breaking your heart again.” A sigh, and Sherlock turned to look at John. He was still contemplating the river, so Sherlock cupped John’s cheek. 

Startled, John turned to look at Sherlock, eyes dark and unreadable. 

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you, because I love you.” 

John jerked his face away from Sherlock’s hands, turning back to the river, but not before Sherlock saw the hope in his eyes. 

“Please, John. And, I’m sorry.” 

“Forgiving you, it’ll take time.” 

“I’ll hate it, but I accept it.” 

“Did you really have to erase me from your mind?” 

“My moon was blue, until you brought the gold back.” Sherlock smiled when John turned to show him the confusion on his face. “You were still a memory that lingered in my heart.” 

John snorted, partially understanding. “You were a memory that made my heart grow cold.” 

“But I’m back in your arms to stay, if you’ll have me.” 

“I love you too, you daft git, but if you ever do anything like this again...” 

“You will track me down and put a bullet in my brain.” 

“As long as we’re clear...” 

Sherlock didn’t let John finish before he was wrapping him up in a hug. Strong arms were hugging him back, warming Sherlock and letting him know his face was cold. His lips were cold as well, which would mean John’s were. Pulling away got John looking up at him, so Sherlock kissed him. John’s lips were chapped, and he’d not shaved that morning, but the friction and stubble burn made it all the more real. When he was so warm he thought about tossing his coat on the ground and having a go at John on top of it, Sherlock pulled back. He was surprised by the confusion on John’s face, in his kiss swollen lips and eyes that were slowly coming back to life. 

“What?” 

“Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but, as we’ve never done that before, are you sure your memory is fine?” 

Sherlock blinked and checked. He knew they’d never done that before but it had seemed the most natural thing to do. Throwing an arm around John’s shoulder, he dragged the man to the waiting black car. Mycroft had been joined by Anthea at some point, and it seemed she was texting what he said. Mycroft stopped talking as Sherlock made sure John got in the car first. Sherlock sat and turned to face Mycroft, left leg laid across John’s lap to get the right angle for his indignation to show. 

“You swore on the crown jewels that you wouldn’t change anything else when I let you into my brain.” 

“I swore on the crown jewels as they rested in the Tower of London.” 

“Which you had moved until Moriarty’s network was finished. I can’t believe I fell for that!” 

“Yeah,” John agreed, “I can’t believe it either.” 

“That’s how stupid I was without you.” 

John looked pleased and embarrassed at Sherlock’s words, as if he was starting to understand how out of it Sherlock had been. 

“What else, Mycroft?” 

“I simply suggested that you lower your emotional barriers around John.” Mycroft waved a hand, as if this was a simple thing. “Clearly, you’ve already succumbed to his charms, and admitting that would help your reconciliation.” 

“Or you could have simply told me I was in danger and let me defend myself.” John griped, but his hands were gripped around Sherlock’s leg in his lap. 

“I’ll explain all that later, John, I really will.” Sherlock rested his hands on John’s. 

Mycroft cleared his throat lightly, to remind them they had an audience. 

John’s eyes tightened in annoyance, so Sherlock turned a little and slid completely into his lap. John looked at him, tongue dancing across his lower lip. Sherlock leaned forward and snogged John until the car stopped, ignoring the noises Mycroft made. If he was going to meddle, he was going to have to deal with the consequences. 

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ S<3J ˥(?)ל


End file.
